hall, we unpacked our quilted poodle skirts, arranged our mandatory dresser scarves, and, as suggested in our freshman handbook, decorated our rooms with something “green and growing.”
In spite of rigid rules and stiff curfews, we generally managed to stay in the good graces of our dean for most of the year—until an epidemic of spring fever, complicated by a severe case of exam jitters, struck unexpectedly in late May. As dogwood blossoms enticed our collective noses from our books, Dante, Dickens, and diameters gave way to seductive visions of dunes and warm sand between our toes. While we watched with envy from behind dog-eared Western Civ notes, indulgently carefree seniors, finished with exams and newly graduated, cavorted around campus in flagrant disregard for our sorry lot.
It may have started with the food fight that erupted among several freshman tables back in a corner of the dining room—an unheard-of occurrence, rendered possible only by the departure of the seniors, whose job it was to instruct the younger students on table etiquette and the art of conversation. Our laughter, sucked in and squelched between fork-flicked mashed potatoes, had never felt so good. The exhilaration of that tiny, insignificant act of anarchy galvanized us as a class. As we giggled and guffawed our way back to our hall, the plot thickened.
There's no question the troops were restless and ready for a little harmless insurrection. There was no instigator or mastermind. It was mob rule, plain and simple. Before long, a plan was formulated. We would strike late, after our ever-vigilant dean had gone to bed.
Focused as we were on the mischief of the moment, exams were the furthest thing from our minds. Between fits of giggles, my three roommates and I put on our PJs, brushed our teeth, smeared our faces with Noxema, and hurried to bed as soon as it was “lights out.” We heard the dean make rounds. Then all was silent. Daring to communicate only occasionally with faint whispers or hand movements, we lay in bed waiting. Then, around midnight, we heard it! The horrific crash of a transom, about two floors above us, followed by another and another and another—like a volley of cannon fire. The noise—magnified four times over by cavernous linoleum halls, vaulted ceilings, and broad wooden stairwells—echoed throughout the building, from its bowels to its towers, like the deep belches of thunder on a summer night.
When the banging and the crashing started, I lay momentarily paralyzed, not expecting the sound to be so deafening. But as soon as the room next to us fired off their salvo, my roommates and I jumped into action. I'll admit I expected the dean to arrive any second, and prayed my father would understand my suspension, or worse, dismissal, while I watched Mary, Susy, and Connie take their turns lustily lowering and slamming the transom. When it was my turn, I sailed out of bed, apprehension changing to exhilaration in midstride, and pulled the bar as hard as I could. As the resounding explosion catapulted down the hall to signal the next room, the four of us collapsed in a tangle of hysterical laughter.
The troublemakers of St Mary's College.
Our hall nearly came off its foundation that night as we hit the transoms in lieu of books. With no way to signal an end to the clamor, bedlam continued well into the night. Hall monitors, class officers, and the dean raced around, not sure what to do or who to blame. They tried in vain to calm the foreign-speaking students who had not been taken into our confidence, as well as the elderly retired sisters who lived in the convent behind us. The police were called, and I think even a couple of fire trucks showed up. While we watched from our window, they were quickly dispatched, but their presence was enough to restore calm. After a couple more errant salvos and snickers smothered in pillows, silence reigned.
In the fervor of the moment, the consequences of our actions had never been considered, but we were not surprised to be called collectively on the carpet the next morning by the president of the college. Mass expulsion was a foregone conclusion.
After a short preamble, Sister Madeleva, a small birdlike woman, her face framed by a starched white bonnet atop a sea of black, walked among us and said, “Last weekend we had a graduation, and Miss Clifford was our valedictorian.” She paused, looked at several of us, eyeball to eyeball, then asked, “Who was yours?”
I'd love to say that first one freshman, then another, and yet another stood, until the entire freshman class stood en masse to take full blame for what would infamously become known as the “Twenty-one Gun Salute.” But, that only happens in the movies. Instead, the room grew deadly quiet and we all just sat there avoiding eye contact, our bravado reduced to a trickle, and waited. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say we were terribly surprised when one of our classmates, Pucky (Aurelia for short) stood to say she was. A low quizzical murmur went through the room. It was news to all of us. Only later would we learn that Pucky wasn't returning the following year and had therefore elected to be our sacrificial valedictorian.
To this day, I don't believe the president bought that bogus confession. I rather think she found it a refreshing interlude to a week of stuffy pomp and circumstance. She let Pucky have her moment of glory, then promptly campused all of us for the remainder of the term, hardly a punishment since, with exams, we weren't going anywhere anyway. The campus returned to normal, our parents were never informed of our prank, and we dutifully stayed in our rooms and studied. That is—until the doorknob incident.
But that's another story.
—BARBARA BENFORD TRAFFICANDA
Your rOOmMate's a Hawg
Afriend of a friend of a coworker was looking for roommates. I was new to California, struggling my way through college, working full-time, and to put it mildly, money was tight. So I answered the call. Little did I dream that I was meeting surrogate big sisters and friends for life—Marie, Claudia, and Nancy. The day we moved in together was my nineteenth birthday. Amid the chaos and boxes, they insisted on a barbecue—Nancy even made me brownies with candles. I was blown away and have loved them like family ever since.
Claudia also brought a fifth roommate into our home—a horrible rude creature we named “the Hawg.” Claudia had worked at a temp agency back home in Illinois and toiled in a number of thankless jobs, one of which was at a manufacturing plant where long, sausage-shaped bags called “hawgs” were used to absorb oil from the machines. She had deftly formed one, in balloon animal fashion, into a very striking semblance of the male anatomy and had given it to a friend at the plant. When she moved in with us, the friend promptly boxed it up and sent it as a housewarming gift, where, as the Hawg, it found a thriving career on the west coast.
The Hawg had a knack for showing up in the most inappropriate places. Imagine snuggling up on the couch with a date and finding a penis-shaped beanbag stuffed under the cushions of the couch. Or how about under your pillow, in the backseat of your car, in your laundry pile about to go to the cleaners, or proudly topping your pillow shams when your mom is visiting? The Hawg knew no mercy. Juvenile, yes. Silly, definitely. Hysterical—absolutely. We would go into fits of laughter with each appearance of the Hawg, and God help the witnesses who half-grinned nervously like we were all crazy.
After Claudia and Marie moved out to get married and Nancy relocated, the Hawg stayed with me, and I had the joy of introducing him to the next set of roommates—Gina, Donna, and Jan. I knew I had two more soul mates when Donna and Gina howled at his first appearance—in Donna's bed. He also foretold the dark future for our relationship with Jan when she didn't find him the least bit amusing. She came storming out of her room, Hawg in hand, in the middle of Donna's dad's birthday party demanding to know “What is this?” While we howled, Dad just shook his head.
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